Lost Vegas
by Linake
Summary: Meghan's lost her parents and she must find a new life with her uncle in Las Vegas. Alternating character POV's. A little G/S.
1. One: Descisions

Disclaimer: The only character that is mine is Meghan I don't own CSI :) Thank You's: Everyone who writes at UtB! You inspired this Note: This was written a long time ago and I just though about it now. Also, it's my first fan fic in story form. Please R & R!  
  
Megan  
  
My dad is just stepping out of the water and my mom is busy making supper.  
  
"Oh, the water looks warm today..." She really wants to be swimming, she always does.  
  
"Well, if you want to go swimming mum, I'll cook dinner. It is your anniversary after all." I suggested.  
  
"Oh, thank you Meghan! You were always my favourite child!" She walks down the spiral stairs with a laugh. She's already in her bathing suit, she loves the water.  
  
"I'm your only child." I comment, as if she wasn't aware of this fact, "Hey mom?" I call after her, she turns her head. "Happy 25th anniversary."  
  
She simply smiles at me and blows kiss my way. I catch it in my palm and place the invisible mark on my cheek.  
  
As I hear the door slam I watch my mom as she sprints across the lawn towards the sandy shore of Lake Superior. Her towel in one hand, her snorkel in the other. I look at the sky, it's getting cloudy. I think nothing more of it, it's always cloudy here, the Weather Channel called for sunny breaks today anyway... what should I make for supper?  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The lawyer is talking to me, but I'm not paying attention. How could this happen?  
  
"Where am I going to go now? I have no family here in Canada!" The tears swell in my eyes and stream down my face.  
  
"Meghan, you have an uncle in Las Vegas, Nevada. Did you know that?"  
  
"I-I think so." I stutter, holding back sobs.  
  
The woman holds a folder in her right hand. "Well, it says here that he shall be your legal guardian." she looks at me. Her face is aged, but with the many layers of makeup she's plastered on it, it's hard to tell. How can she be so calm?! Because she didn't know them like you did Meghan, you spent everyday with them. Don't get mad at her. It's your fault... I sigh. She continues, "Well, if you really don't want to move in with your uncle there is an available foster family in Colorado, we could contact them and-- ."  
  
My hand shoots up in an attempt to stop her. A foster family? Is she serious?! I don't let my anger show, "Nah." the sobs break through, "I think, well, he's family and..."  
  
"I understand Meghan." No she doesn't... 


	2. Two: Air Pain

The plane ride is uncomfortable and seems to drag on forever. They put me on one of those cheap airlines, no food, no drinks, no flight attendants. Luckily I bought a bag of M&M's at the airport.  
  
The woman next to me has been trying to spark a conversation for nearly two hours now. Give it up already! I'm not interested in Bush's speech he gave to the people of.where ever. leave me alone.  
  
"Are you on this flight all alone missy?" she asks, her Texan accent is getting to me.  
  
I nod. I don't feel like talking, I have so many other things on my mind.  
  
"Oh, taking a trip to the old city of LV are ya?" she smiles, her teeth show she is a smoker. And by the deep yellow colour I'd say she has been for a long time.  
  
"Not exactly." My voice it bitter, I realize how rude I must have sounded, "Sorry." I try to give a friendly grin, but it doesn't break through.  
  
That's alright there, hun. I'm stopping by there on my way back to Huston.." There is a pause, "Just, 'cause, I thought you were a little young to be on a plane by yourself, and. you are from Canada are ya not?"  
  
"How'd you guess?" Besides me getting on in Ontario and the Canada shirt I'm wearing.  
  
"Oh, the accent. I can always tell a Canuck from the rest." I ignore that comment. "So where are your parents?" she asks.  
  
I feel the tears coming. I try unsuccessfully to hide my face.  
  
"I'm sorry, hun." She left it at that.  
  
The pilot announces one hour until we reach Vegas. I wonder what my uncle looks like. I heard my dad talk about him a few times. From what I've heard he is smart. but that's about it. I didn't really find it weird, until now, that I've never met the guy. 


	3. Three: Bug Eyed

The airport is a lot more congested than the one at home. I scan the crowd, my eyes narrowing to focus on the faces furthest away. Stopping to think, I ask myself who I am supposed to be looking for. Dad never told me what he looked like. Just then I notice a man standing near the escalators. He has his eyes fixed on me, and he looks to be asking himself the same question. I walk closer to him as he runs his fingers through his curly hair. It's graying at the sides, and makes him look very distinguished. There is some white, as though sprinkled with salt and pepper. A feeling in my gut tells me this must be the guy, my uncle.  
  
"Meghan?" he asks, tilting his head like some sort of confused bird.  
  
"Um, ya. It's me. Hi." I don't even notice as I give a small wave.  
  
"Hello."  
  
There is an awkward silence, "Uh-my bags should be coming out soon." We walk over to the conveyer belt.  
  
As we approach he seems very interested in the moving luggage. I watch him, his deep blue eyes are focusing on each suitcase, each bag. His head tilts again and his eyebrow rises. "Did you know that the French word for conveyer is transporteur? It translates back into English as carrier."  
  
This guy's weird. "Yes, I took French class in school." I explain as I grab my suitcases. His expression is indescribable. He looks hurt, though I don't know why.  
  
"Oh, I see. Well, we better get going."  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The ride home has been long and quiet. The Tahoe is quite roomy though, and I pretended to admire the softness of the seats to keep busy. This lasted a few minutes until I noticed the scenery. Flat, dry, unlike anything I have seen before. The houses were side by side in perfect order. The fake green grass was faultless, with the occasional garden gnome. It almost seems like a fake neighbourhood from a movie or a television show. This is going to take some getting used to.  
  
~*~*~*~ We're at his town house now. The walls are painted plain white and there is a large stereo on the far wall. I wonder what kind of music this guy listens to. Probably not Our Lady Peace.  
  
My uncles' voice breaks my thoughtful silence. "Help yourself to a drink." He points towards the kitchen; whish is pretty much the same room as the living and dining room, but with an island counter dividing it. He walks into what I suppose is a spare room with my two brown, tattered suitcases. I don't feel like a drink now, so I decide to explore me new home. There are framed butterflies and moths on the wall.weird. I walk into the room my Uncle had just emerged from and gasp at what I see. One single bed lies in the middle of the room, and what else? Tarantulas. Everywhere. There must be 20 cages of them! Along with what look like maggots, worms, and beetles. What is with this guy? I turn to run from the room and WHAM I run right into my uncles' chest.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asks. What does he think is wrong? Is he blind? Does he not see what I see?  
  
"What--um--these." is all I can spit out.  
  
"Those are like my pets. Some people are cat people, others are dog people. I'm a bug man myself."  
  
"You can't seriously expect me to sleep in here with these--these things!"  
  
"It's fine, they won't mind. They like the company," He looks at my shocked expression and seems to register it, "They rarely escape from their cages anyway." Rarely?  
  
"Why are there so many?" Good question, I thought.  
  
"Well, they couldn't all fit in my room. I had to put them somewhere." I was wrong. "You're dad, he never told you what I did, did he?  
  
"Not exactly."  
  
"I'm a Criminalist."  
  
"Oh ya, cool."  
  
"You don't know what that is, do you?"  
  
"No clue."  
  
"Aw, something you haven't learned in school. The basics are, I go to crime scenes, examine evidence left behind by who ever committed the crime, help to find the 'bad guy."  
  
"And the bugs?"  
  
"Most CSI's have a specialty area. Blood spatter analysis, ballistics. Mine is forensic entomology, the study of bugs to help solve crimes."  
  
"Cool!" I say a bit too loud. He flinches at the sudden change of pitch. "Sorry." 


	4. Four: Duty Calls

"Uncle, um." I don't even know his first name, do I?  
  
"Gil." I didn't, he never told me.  
  
"Right. Uncle Gil, I think I'll take you up on that drink now."  
  
"Want a soda?"  
  
"Naw, no pop for me. Maybe a glass of water."  
  
"What, none of you 'pop'?" I can't help but laugh, he has a dry sense of humour.  
  
"No, just water. I've had enough sugar today. I bought a bag of M&M's at the airport."  
  
"I prefer Chocobees myself." This guy eats candy?  
  
He walks towards the fridge and looks in. He grabs a bottle of water and hands it to me.  
  
"Bottled water?" I never drink this stuff, seems so pointless.  
  
"Yeah, trust me, you don't want to drink Las Vegas water."  
  
"I'll take your word for it." There are times that I took living next to a fresh water lake for granted. I twist the blue cap off of the water and take a big swig, "So, tell me more about your job."  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The conversation was long and very interesting. Apparently my uncle had been working in forensic science for a little over 25 years now. He even used to lecture in places like San Francisco and L.A. He doesn't look like a public speaker. I guess that's why I shouldn't judge people. What is that beeping?  
  
"Uncle Gil, you're beeping!"  
  
"What? Oh," he scrabbles and takes a black pager from his pants pocket, "That'd be Sara," Sara eh? I wonder who that is, "She needs me."  
  
I look at him and smile, "She needs you?"  
  
"At the lab, she needs me at the lab." Sure.  
  
"Okay." I look skeptical and I know it.  
  
He either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore it. "Are you okay here? I'll be back by dinner, probably."  
  
"Ya, sure. I'll unpack my stuff, or try to. I'm serious, those bugs are freaky."  
  
"I told you, they won't mind." I will.  
  
"Maybe I'll listen to some music." I shoot my eyes towards the stereo, it's gigantic!  
  
"Sure, I'll call if I'm going to be late. The number to my office is in that black book over there." He points to a small book beside the phone. Grabbing a brown jacket off the chair at the table he heads out the door with a wave.  
  
I'm alone now, in a strange house, filled to the rim with bugs and weird statues. this is great, I might as well attempt to unpack. 


	5. Five: Used and Abused

-Gil-  
  
'Man, I wonder what Sara wants. Maybe this slow work week is finally giving us a case. It's the middle of the day though, what, did Ecklie have too many case?' I smirk at myself. Conrad Ecklie is the supervisor of the day- shift C.S.I. Myself being the supervisor of the night or "graveyard" shift. We are naturally competitive.  
  
Is that the phone? I need to get something done to improve my hearing, while I still can. I flip open my cell. "Grissom." I answer.  
  
"Hey Griss, are you headed to the lab?" I recognize the voice right away.  
  
"Hello, Nick. What's up?" Nick is a CSI Level 3, he sometimes gets emotional on some cases, along with Sara.  
  
"Turn toward the strip. We're all waiting outside the MGM. There's a girl here. She's beat pretty bad."  
  
"Be right there." I winder if Meghan's okay. 'Of course she is Gil, she's old enough'. I jerk the wheel and head toward the always-very-busy strip.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
-Meghan-  
  
I've been sitting at this doorway for ten minutes now. If only I could get up the nerve to go in that room. I know what's waiting for me, but I have to unpack, I just have to.  
  
I crack open the door, half expecting a swarm of bugs to leak out at my feet, but all is quiet. I peer in. The cages continue to line the walls, and despite the contents of them, the rest of the room is spotless. Maybe it won't be so bad. I walk towards the single bed and sit on it's springy mattress. The comforter is black, and very plain. I lay my bag beside me on the bed, it bounces at the force of it's fall. I begin to unpack, first my PJ's, which go beside the pillow. Then all the necessities: underwear, shirts, pants, hair brush, tooth brush and the like. Last but not least, my Teddy. It's not so much a teddy, really, as it is a stuffed moose. I got it last Christmas from my parents, it's one of the few things I got from them that year. I remember being angry when I only found five gifts under the tree. I remember asking them why I didn't get more. I realize now I was selfish, all those wasted minutes arguing with them when I should have been holding them close.now they're gone. I feel a tear trickle down my cheek and I place Moosie down on my pillow as I try to shake the thoughts from my head.  
  
Perhaps if I eat I'll forget, food is like my sanctuary. I'm not always hungry, I could just chew air and I'd be satisfied. My stomach barks at me, telling me that this time it is hunger.  
  
I walk form the room, across the tile floor. It's slippery against my stocking feet, and some-what fun. As I walk I examine the butterflies on the walls. So many shapes and sizes, and for some reason they don't bother me. Maybe because they are dead, where as in my new room, the bugs are very much alive.  
  
I open the fridge and am actually surprised to see left-over macaroni and cheese. I mean, real macaroni and cheese, not KD. I take out the glass bowl from the fridge and place it on the white cutting board. I search the drawers and cupboards for a smaller bowl, finally finding one I pull out a fork from another drawer and scoop a large portion of the mac & cheese. The microwave is a lot like my old one, Samsung. I wrap up the rest and place it back in the refrigerator.  
  
When it's finished I take a heaping forkful of my mid-day snack and, wow! Can this guy cook! Maybe I'll put some music on while I eat.  
  
-Gil-  
  
I hate people who abuse children. I just despise it. She's only 15, the same age as Meghan, and she's almost all bruises. Someone's calling me.  
  
".Grissom, earth to Grissom." It's Warrick Brown, another CSI, Level 3 of mine, recovering from a gambling problem.  
  
"Yes, what is it?"  
  
"You alright? You were just standing there."  
  
"Yes, I was just thinking, that's all."  
  
"Well, we got some information from her, apparently she's a run away form Colorado."  
  
Brass had walked up beside Warrick while he was talking and took it from there, "She was trying to escape her, quote, "beat neck" father. She says he abused her and-"  
  
"Wait, if she's form Colorado, why did she come here?" Her father, it's so sad. She must think she can trust no one now.  
  
"I'm getting to that. She says her Aunt lives here."  
  
"At the MGM?" Maybe she was a show girl.  
  
"No, here in Vegas." Brass was a bit heavy set, with short brown hair, almost my height, and a homicide detective. He sometimes helps get answers from suspects or witnesses. He can be very intimidating.  
  
"I mean, why is she here, at the MGM?"  
  
"Apparently she got to Vegas by hitchhiking." Maybe she does trust people, everybody more than her father.  
  
Warrick has been listening but finally speaks up, "That can't be safe."  
  
"No, it wasn't," Brass continued, "Story goes, the man who picked her up gave her a business card of another guy here in town. He dropped her off at a different hotel, a few nights back. She says she saw our team there, she was sitting on the curb."  
  
"Must have been the Mirage." I conclude. There had been a robbery there a few nights ago. It had been the only hotel-case in almost three weeks. It's amazing, with the number of hotels and motels here, how only 15% of homicides happen in them.  
  
"Makes sense." Warrick added.  
  
"Well, she says another guy saw her there and told her to get in his car."  
  
"Mistaken for a hooker?" Warrick's a sharp one, I smile.  
  
"Or was he told she was there." I added. More in a question tone, but I wasn't asking.  
  
"Possibly, both of them. What happened after that, well, she was lucky to get away and brave to tell someone." Brass looked the girls way.  
  
"Anyway of getting a hold of her aunt?" I ask.  
  
"Well, yes and no."  
  
"Meaning." So Warrick is still listening, he is staring in the direction of the giant golden lions paw, though.  
  
"Meaning, I'm sure it's possible. But she is mum when it comes to her name."  
  
I turn to Brass, "Take her in for more questioning, will you, Jim?"  
  
"Sure thing, Gil." He walks toward the mystery girl again.  
  
"So what were you thinking about Grissom?" Warrick's nosey.  
  
"Oh, just stuff." Stuff is not a word I use too often. Only when I don't feel like explaining things. 


End file.
